


Invitation

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil tests Thorin’s resolve through too much to drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Bladder desperation: Thranduil enjoys seeing Thorin squirm and lose that noble veneer of his under intense pressure” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21699563).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s been pacing back and forth for a good many hours, speaking of things he has little care for. The main goal is simply to keep Thorin _talking_ , which is hardly difficult once there’s wine in his belly. Thranduil had his guards bring a little table and two bottles before he bid them leave, and both now stand empty, just beside the throne. Thorin’s glass is emptied many times over, Thranduil’s glass still holding a small, red puddle from his first pour. 

He’s been clever, thoughtful with his drink, but more so with Thorin’s. He’s proposed many toasts and only taken small sips while watching his Dwarven counterpart down his contents in one gulp. There’s a certain allure in the way Thorin’s thick adam’s apple will bob with each swallow, his lips pursing to drink and releasing afterwards, parting to suck in a breath of air. The flush has spread over his cheeks, down to the tip of his nose, and his deep eyes have become hazed, dilated and wandering. There are a few moments in Thorin’s speech where his words will slur or stall, and his gaze will travel down Thranduil’s body, to rest at his lithe hips and the subtle way the nearly sheer fabric clings to his inner thighs. Silver and beautiful, these robes look, at first glance, like any other. But Thranduil chose them specifically for this purpose, and they’ve hardly disappointed.

Thorin has become a wolf in armour, eyeing his guest with more and more hunger and even the occasional lick to his lips, which always makes Thranduil suppress a shiver of his own. He claimed to have come to speak of political matters, but in truth, he simply wanted to see the King under the Mountain squirm as much as that king has done to him under the veil of dreams. 

Finally, after many hours and many more words, Thorin shifts in his seat. He adjusts his robes, and his words falter—discomfort flickers over his face. Thranduil’s plan is coming to fruition. He fights to keep the ever-ready smirk from his face, and he lifts a dark eyebrow, pausing in his own steps. Hands behind his back and posture regal as ever, he asks, “Has our discussion become too much for you, Thorin Oakenshield? Perhaps your time in your home has dulled your perseverance, and you require rest from simple talks.”

Anger flashes behind Thorin’s eyes at the not-so-subtle jibes. They both know it isn’t true; Thranduil has bruises on his hips to prove Thorin’s continued ferocity, right up to yesterday’s evening, when he was first shown—or rather, thrown—into his guest chambers. But the words cut all the same, and Thorin settles back into his throne as if to say he could sit there for an age, even though his knees are clamped conspicuously together. 

“I simply grow bored of your idle prattle,” Thorin sneers, waving one gauntlet-covered hand. It’s another lie to be sure; Thranduil has it on good authority that Thorin very much enjoys the silken tones of his voice. In fact, more than once, Thorin has urged him to be _as vocal as he can._ As Thranduil takes a step towards the throne, Thorin orders, “It is time you took your leave. Elves are delicate creatures, and I would not wish to interrupt your careful cycle.” Thranduil only takes another step, so that the tip of his boot touches the stone just left of Thorin’s foot.

When Thranduil leans over the throne, his long, pale hair slithers over his shoulders, cascading down Thorin’s body. Thorin betrays himself by looking away, the tremor that runs down his spine clear to see. His hips shift again. The armour keeps the arch of his stomach flat, but Thranduil knows that were he to peel the metal away, he would find a round belly waiting for him. In a deep but sing-song voice, Thranduil purrs, “I think I should like to watch you sit a while longer.”

Thorin _growls_. His gaze shifts over the table and empty bottles, and recognition flashes in his eyes. Thranduil allows his smirk, the game spelled out: yes, he did this on purpose. He tricked his dear counterpart into drinking all he could, and now the discomfort is slowly becoming desperation: a state that always looks particularly elegant on Thorin, King under the Mountain.

Thranduil could watch Thorin squirm for a century. Instead, he steps back to watch from a fond distance, giving Thorin room to breathe but none for relief. Now it is truly a game, and dwarves are so amusingly opposed to losing, even when there is nothing on the line but Thranduil’s fun. 

For a while, they’re silent. Thorin sits in his chair, stubborn but breathing steadily harder, his great head thrown back and his crown tilting forward on his forehead, his grip tight around his armrests. Thranduil strolls slowly around the small platform, observing his prey from every angle. It’s rare, moments like this, when the two of them find time to be alone. As much as Thranduil treasures them, a part of him wishes someone would stroll in, perhaps one of Thorin’s dear cousins, those that worship him so very much, just to see him reduced to a whimpering, squirming mess. Thorin probably thinks he’s suppressing his noises, his hushed pleas, but to Elven ears, the gentle whining is all too plain. And Thranduil enjoys every second. 

Finally, Thorin gives in to a gasp. He grits his teeth tight, and Thranduil strolls close again, dipping his head so that his breath can ghost over Thorin’s ear. Affectionately, he asks, “Are you going to piss yourself, O Great King under the Mountain?”

Thorin’s growl is nothing short of ferocious, and yet it only makes Thranduil chuckle. He reaches out one hand, letting his bare fingers brush along Thorin’s scruffy cheek. Thranduil’s never been fond of beards, but somehow, it works on Thorin Oakenshield. Like so many things.

Thorin says nothing in response. It’s rare that Thranduil’s language becomes cruder than his Dwarven host, but he contents himself with knowing that what Thorin doesn’t say, he wears on his face. Thranduil’s eyes never leave it as his hand drifts to the table, and he takes his own glass by the stem. 

He draws it back to Thorin’s mouth, and he presses the rim of the elegant glass against Thorin’s bottom lip. Thorin snarls, his eyes darting to burn holes into Thranduil, but Thranduil only smiles in return, daring Thorin to turn his head away like a child. Instead, Thorin parts his lips. He has no choice; he wouldn’t let wine slosh down his chest. Thranduil tilts the cup and watches the ruby liquid drizzle down into Thorin’s open mouth. He feeds Thorin all of it and doesn’t move the glass away until he’s watched Thorin swallow. 

Then he sets the cup back on the table, and he draws a few dark, wavy strands away from his king’s face, watching Thorin struggle and writhe. His control is admirable, but clearly waning.

Without looking at Thranduil, Thorin hisses, “Do you enjoy this, Elf?”

Thranduil ignores the judgment and irritation in Thorin’s voice, instead stroking Thorin’s jaw to purr, “Very much so.” 

Thorin looks as though he has a response to spit, but instead he only arches his chest out, trying to contort his body in a way that won’t relinquish so much control to his bladder. Thranduil adds in a pleased sigh, “I enjoy anything that tears a dwarf king down.”

Thorin starts, “I swear—” but cuts off and doesn’t finish. Thranduil knows there will be a revenge and freely admits that he’s looking forward to it; he’s never minded having his hair pulled by a worthy opponent, and Thorin is particularly _delicious_ when he’s mad.

But for now, Thranduil finally takes pity on his poor dwarf. He bends lower down the chair, dropping his hand from Thorin’s face to run down Thorin’s chest. He traces Thorin’s abdomen, and finally he rests in the part of the mail skirt draped over Thorin’s trousers. 

Thranduil cups the thick bulge of Thorin’s cock through the fabric, and he presses down.

Thorin gasps. His mouth opens in a large circle, lashes fluttering against his cheek and thighs straining as his cock spills, the tip pressing a damp little circle against Thranduil’s palm. Having started, Thorin can’t stop. Thranduil can _feel_ Thorin soiling himself, losing control in the throne of his ancestors. Thranduil doesn’t once remove his hand, only massages lightly, his fingers idly tracing and dancing over the outline of Thorin’s impressive shaft. Milking Thorin’s cock is something Thranduil never tires of in any form, but even more so, he enjoys watching Thorin’s face. The relief and shame mingle with pleasure, until all the piss Thorin has in him has drained into his trousers, and now his cock is free to harden in Thranduil’s busy hand. 

But Thranduil withdraws his touch as teasingly as it came. He bends to peck Thorin’s forehead, as though rewarding a pet for behaving well. After he pulls away, he only spends a moments observing the gorgeous wreck he’s left Thorin in. 

Then he turns and heads for the left pathway, calling behind him, “Visit my guest chambers, once you have cleaned yourself up.”

Thorin’s heated voice shouts after him, “You have no power to give orders here!” But the lust in the tone is obvious, and Thranduil knows he will shortly be joined by a very resilient dwarf. He tries not to chuckle. 

As he leaves the great hall of kings, his two guards fall in behind him, and he tells them through his smile, “Have another bottle of wine sent to my chambers. ...And one to King Thorin’s.”


End file.
